Max Attack
by acaelousqueadcentrum
Summary: Prompt: my child. Teenaged Gail and Holly at a Community Center.
1. Chapter 1

"Hey, are you Gail," you ask the unpleasant-looking teenager sitting on one of the benches in the hallway.

"I am," she answers back in a bored tone, "what of it?"

"I'm Holly, you'll be paired with me today for training." You look at your clipboard, "Looks like we're in the pre-K room," you say as you start to walk down the hall.

She follows slowly, dragging her feet against the waxed floor and you roll your eyes. Wonderful, you've been assigned a brat.

The pre-K room is at the end of the hall, and you pass brightly colored pictures and art projects all along the way. This part of the hallway always makes you smile, it reminds you of home.

You stop suddenly in the hall, absolutely positive that she's not paying attention. And, sure enough, a second later you feel her body bump into yours.

"Hey, what the hell," she exclaims, and you sigh.

"Okay, first of all. No swearing. Got it?"

She nods and you can see a barely banked fire burning in the backs of her eyes.

"Second. Lose the attitude. I don't know why you're here, but I'm guessing it wasn't your choice. Which usually means you were offered the choice between community service or court, and you were smart enough to pick community service, am I right?"

The girl glares at you, her dark black hair a sharp contrast to her pale, pale skin. "My mother the cop" she says, almost a growl, "made a deal with the arresting officers. My punishment is this. It's supposed to give me perspective."

The eye roll tells you she doesn't expect her worldview to change much during her time here. A spoiled brat then. Today should be fun.

"Right, then. Listen up. You will _not_ go in there with that attitude. You will _not_ make these kids feel like they are a burden or like you think you're better than them. This is an after-school program for under-privileged kids, kids whose parents can't afford daycare or nannies or au pairs. Some of these kids can't even see the poverty line from where they're living, some of them are homeless, the kinds of situations you can't even imagine."

For the first time since you found her lingering in the hallway, she won't meet your eyes. Good. It means she's really listening.

"For a lot of these kids, this is the safest place they know. We're not just babysitters, we're counselors, we're teachers, we're playmates, and we make sure they know that they are appreciated, and that they are loved, and that they are not worthless. And whether you want to be here or not, you _will_ do the same, you get me?"

This time the nod you get is honest, and a little ashamed. Hopefully your words will stick.

You open the door to the chaos inside, the buzz of happy voices to greet you.

"Miss Holly," you hear them all say as Rico, the primary school coordinator for the program finishes up taking attendance.

* * *

><p>Four hours later and you're tired, but a good kind of tired. The kind of tired that means today was a good day. Gail had settled in well after your lecture in the hallway, and you have no doubts that the sixteen-year-old rebel will fit in well over her term here. And hopefully not get caught with spray-paint in a freeway underpass anytime soon. Honestly? You're looking forward to working with her again over the next few months. Her biting with and her sarcastic take on the world was so different than the bored entitlement of the people you spend your days with in your classes, the kind of bored entitlement you first assumed she possessed as well. And it's different, too, from the sleepy comfort of your—<p>

"Mom," you hear a small voice shout from the other end of the hall, where the kindergarten kids have their classroom and activities. "Mom," he repeats again, and then you feel a tight hug around your knees. He's getting tall.

"Max," you answer back with a grin before reaching to pick him up and settle him on your hip. Soon he'll be too big for this, and you want to take advantage of it while you can.

"You didn't come eat with me," he says with a fake pout.

You see Gail watching the two of you, a look on her face that you assume is her trying to remember if she said anything about the parents or kids here that you might find offensive.

She shouldn't worry. She didn't. And even if she had, you'd already heard it all at one point or another. A teenage mom. Periodically homeless. Perpetually struggling to make ends meet. Yeah, you've heard the worst that people can say about you.

"Nope, I was busy helping my new friend Gail here," you answer back, "say hello to Miss Gail."

"Hello, Miss Gail," he says, and runs one of his toy cars up the curve of your shoulder.

Gail shakes off whatever she was thinking and steps forward to offer Max a high-five. "Hey, Max," she says, "sorry I kept your mom from you."

"S'okay," he says as he kicks his legs.

"Nah," she answers back with a curious smile, "I know how I felt when I was your age, and my mom couldn't eat dinner with me. How about I make it up to you."

She looks back and forth from him to you and back to him before continuing, "Think your mom will let us all go get ice cream? My treat?"

You know you're lost the moment you hear Max gasp—ice cream is a special thing in your home—and feel his legs pick up their pace.

"Mom, can we get ice cream with Miss Gail, can we?"

You look at Gail, into the sparkle of her blue eyes, and sigh.

Yep, absolutely lost.


	2. Chapter 2

Ice cream with Gail went well, and despite your protests against it, she had treated you and your son. And then, finding out that you were planning on taking the bus home, she insisted on driving the two of you, assuring you that if you buckled Max in and sat in the backseat with him, it would be perfectly safe despite the lack of a car seat.

She drove slow, avoiding the busier streets, and you know that was to ease your mind. Max dozed against you in the back seat, and aside from his sleepy breathing, the ride was mostly silent. You didn't let her help the two of you into your apartment, however, insisting that you and your son would be just fine getting in.

You noticed, though, that she didn't pull away until you closed the door of the building behind you.

It had been a long time since someone watched to make sure you got in okay.

* * *

><p>In the three months since that night, you've gotten to know Gail quite well, and not just from the Community Center where she's turned into one of everyone's favorite volunteers.<p>

The two of you have become friends, of a kind. You spend your breaks talking together whenever possible, and she's always asking after Max, or prepared with some joke that a five-year-old will find hilarious. And more often than not, she drives you and your son home, claiming that it's on her way anyway. It isn't, you're pretty sure, but you let the lie pass, just grateful for her generosity with her time and vehicle. It means you and Max get home earlier than usual, and you get a few minutes more of adult conversation with someone who isn't one of your uni classmates.

They're okay, your classmates, but they're all twenty and in love with the idea of being twenty and young and free. And you're not. You're twenty but you're not young, and you're not free. You have a son, and you're determined to give him a good life, determined that he'll never have to experience the chaos of his first year again.

He doesn't remember, but you do. The fear of finding out you were pregnant, getting thrown out of the foster home you'd been living in, running away from the group home you'd been sent to. The months of living on the street as your belly grew bigger and the nights got colder. You remember how terrified you were as you walked into the ER, doubled over in pain, certain that this was it, that you wouldn't survive the pain.

But you had, and you'd given birth to a boy. A son. Max. And knowing that he'd be taken away from you, a fifteen-year-old girl with nothing, you'd snuck out of the hospital, weak, but determined.

Looking back, you have no idea how the two of you survived that winter, bouncing from shelter to shelter. Never staying longer than a few nights in any area of the city, certain that if you got comfortable somewhere, someone would come and take Max away from you, put the both of you back into the system you'd run away from.

You couldn't have that.

The Community Center, that had saved your life. Of that, you're certain. Your life and Max's. You'd been hiding out in one of the public libraries, enjoying the free air conditioning as you read to your five-month-old son from a biology textbook you found on the shelf. The librarians probably knew about your situation, which explains why there was so often baby clothes in the lost and found, or plates of muffins and sandwiches, and cartons of milk left in the break room where they let you breastfeed Max when he got fussy.

One in particular, a kind middle-aged woman, brought you a flyer one day. It was for the Center, free parenting classes, babysitting for teenage student parents, a swap meet slash flea market for people who needed things. Because of her, because of the Center, you were able to get your tiny subsidized apartment, your GED. They're the reason you were able to apply to college, get a scholarship.

It's one of the reasons, in addition to the fact that you still qualify for and need their childcare services, that you're so determined to give back to them, why you work as a counselor three nights a week when you could be at home doing your homework or playing with your son.

It took you a while, but you slowly told Gail all of this. And her reaction had been, well, it had been amazing. She didn't look at you differently, didn't look down on you or judge you. Instead, she took your hand in hers and called you strong, called you brave. She told you what an amazing kid Max was—something you already knew—and how proud you should be of him, and of your accomplishments.

And the thing is, you think she means it. All of that.

It's not like you don't know you've come a long way, you do. But hearing it? Hearing it from her? You're not sure why, but it meant a lot. You think of it in bed after you turn the lights off, as you listen to make sure you don't hear any shenanigans coming from Max's room.

You go to bed smiling and you wake up the same way.

The only other person to make you feel this way, the only other person in your whole life, has been your kid.

You're not sure how, but Gail has become important to you, her opinion of you has become integral to your opinion of yourself.

And, of course, it doesn't hurt that you're pretty sure Max is head over heels in love with her.

Smart kid.


	3. Chapter 3

You are so screwed.

Your biochem midterm is tomorrow and you have a study group tonight. You'd had the whole thing planned out, Max would go to the Center even though it wasn't your normal night, and you'd pick him up on your way home from the cafe where you and your group had agreed to meet.

But ten minutes ago you'd gotten a call from the nurse at Max's school. He was sick, throwing up, and needed to be picked up.

And there goes your cram session. Which just sucks, because you'd missed a few lectures during the past few weeks—the cost of being a single mom during flu season—and were hoping your classmates could help you through some of the sections you were having trouble with. But now, now you're going to spend your night with a sick little boy clinging to you, and if you're lucky, you'll be able to catch a few hours sleep.

* * *

><p>Riding the bus home from Max's school is terrible. It's obvious that he's sick, and everyone glares at you and him, and moves seats to make sure they're not sitting in range of the sick kid and his mother. It's all the same to you.<p>

The bus ride is no longer than usual, but it feels like twice a long this afternoon. Max moves from his seat into your lap, and curls his hot body into yours. His long legs stick out, almost into the aisle of the bus, and you smile to yourself, imagining how strong and tall he'll soon grow to be. You imagine him as a teenager, and as a young man.

You run your fingers through his wild hair—he needs a haircut soon, he's needed one for a while, but you've just been really busy this semester. Maybe over the weekend, if he's feeling better.

"Hey, Max-man," you say into the soft curl of his ear, "our stop's up next, do you want to pull the cord?"

You know he must be feeling terrible when he shakes his head at you, whispering into your shirt "No, mom, you do it."

Thankfully, he doesn't throw up on the bus, or on the short walk from the bus back to your apartment. But about five minutes after the two of you walk through the door, he starts to make that noise you know all too well. He doesn't make it—your kid hates to throw up, and when it starts to happen he just freezes—and after you clean him up and get him settled on the couch, you drag out a bucket and start to scrub the carpet in the hallway.

You're sweating, but almost done, when you hear a knock at your door.

When you see who it is, your heart flutters, and you're not sure if it's in relief or anxiety.  
>Gail's never been in your apartment before, though she's dropped you and Max off often enough after nights at the Center. But you've never invited her in, never invited her over.<p>

You know why, and you're a little ashamed of the reason. But the thing is, even though Gail knows about your history, about the struggles you went through in the middle of your adolescence, you haven't been ready for her to see it yet. For her to see your tiny, cramped apartment, the living room and pull-out sofa that doubles as your bedroom. In reality, it's quite the multipurpose room. Your bedroom, the living room you and Max watch TV in, your study after he's gone to sleep.

This afternoon it's the sickroom, and you before you open the door you look over your shoulder to see if Max is sleeping.

You hear her knock again, soft but precise, and you quickly open the door and step out into the hallway.

"Hey," you say "how you get in?"

She wrinkles her nose, and you realize you probably smell like vomit.

"No time, Hol," she says, and gently pushes you back into the apartment, her voice just above a whisper as she shuts and bolts the door behind quietly carefully behind her.

"What do you—" you start to ask, mentally trying to remember if there's anything you don't want her to see spread around the apartment. But you can't think of anything. Not anything she doesn't already know about. The calendar with the social worker's visits highlighted in blue, the monthly social assistance envelopes that help supplement your income.

But Gail already knows about these things, and you feel ashamed for feeling ashamed. Gail's your friend, this girl with her brash and bratty nature, and her big, soft heart. She already knows these things and she's never judged you for them before.

You can't even think of why you thought she'd start now.

"—Seriously, Holly, no time. You have fifteen minutes to shower and change and be out the door if you want to make it to your study group on time. Go," she says, gently pushing you towards the bathroom.

You shower quickly, still not entirely sure what's happening, but Gail's voice has taken on that "don't mess with me" tone that you've heard her using with the fifth-graders when they get too rowdy during physical activity time.

A few minutes in, you hear the door open and feel the cool draft of air from the hallway. "I brought you a change of clothes," she says, and then closes the door again. When you get out, there's a pair of your jeans sitting on the bathroom counter, along with a bra and pair of panties she must have taken out of the basket of unfolded laundry on the kitchen table. And there's a shirt you recognize as one of hers, something fancier and more expensive than the resale shop tshirts that make up most of your wardrobe. It's a sweater, soft against the palm you gently lay a top it, and you wonder why she's brought such a beautiful piece of clothing in for you.

"Just put it on already, Holly," she whispers fiercely from the other side of the bathroom door, and you laugh nervously. "It's just a sweater, it's a little too big for me but I thought it would look good on you."

You pull on the clothes in a hurry, pausing only for a moment to look at your reflection in the mirror. She was right, it does look good on you. The crimson and cream stripes stand out against the natural tan of your skin. It hugs you in all the right places, the curves that carrying Max brought to your formerly stick-thin body. Or maybe you were always going to end up with these hips and these breats—but you have no way of knowing now.

She gives you an approving nod when you open the door, and then hands you the pair of heavy, durable combat boots you'd bought last winter at Goodwill. Best fifteen dollars you'd ever spent there, you think as you pull the laces tight.

"Okay," Gail says, holding out the keys to her car, "just be careful, because if anything happens the parental units will freak out big time and probably send me to juvie."

You shake your head, still staring at her, so confused about everything that's taken place over the last twenty minutes or so.

"Gail, what's going on, why are you here," you ask.

The girl has many smiles, and you're slowly learning them. There's her sly smile, the one that means someone is about to experience something uncomfortable. There's her super syurpy smile, and you know that means that she means absolutely nothing that she says, and it's usually reserved for people she overhears making derogatory statements about you and Max, or the kids from the Center. There's her fake smile, the one that means she's putting up a front, pretending to be happy so no one will ask her why she's sad, and the genuine smile, the one she gets when she's fully engaged in coloring with Max, or playing hide and seek with the older kids at the park on a Center fieldtrip.

But this one, you don't know what this one is. It's gentle, and real, and so beautiful it cracks open something inside of you.

"I was at the Center when you called and said Max was sick and wouldn't be in. And I remembered you talking about your exam, and how important it was, and the study group that you needed to attend, and I just didn't want you to miss it. So I asked Rico and Marcus if it was okay for me to leave, told them I'd make it up on the weekend or something. Figured I could watch Max for you while you went and studied."

For a moment, you're speechless. You remember your first impression of her, the sullen kid sititng on the bench. You thought she was spoiled and selfish and a brat, and a million other unpleasant and unkind things. You'd never stopped to consider what demons might haunt her, not that day. But she'd surprised you. Impressed you, even, and you don't impress even. And by the end of the night you knew that she was going to be a great addition to the lives of the kids at the Center, for however long she'd be a part of it.

And as you've become friends, as you've teased and joked and shared, you've realized that her burdens might be different from yours, might not be a five-year-old son and a welfare check once a month, but they cut into her just as deep as yours do into you. The expectations of her family, the fear of failure, the uncertainty about her place in the world, you've learned just how many things weigh her down.

Now you know her as kind-hearted Gail, as sweet-Gail, the woman who sneaks your kid Tootsie Rolls when you're not looking. You know just what an amazing person she is, what an amazing woman she will become.

"Holly," she says, jangling the keys, "you should really go."

You take them from her, but not before looking over to the couch where your son sleeps, his dark curly hair and light brown skin, the flush of fever on his cheeks.

"Don't worry about Max, he'll be fine. I'll make sure he drinks plenty of fluids and I'll call your cell if his fever rises or if he seems to be getting worse, okay?" She thrusts your jacket at you and puts a stern look on her face.

"Okay, okay. I'm going. Gail, I don't know how to—"

"—Nope," she says, cutting in, "You don't have time for this. You can thank me later. Now go. And be careful with my car, seriously."

Overwhelmed, you just nod and quickly pull your jacket on before heading toward the door. But before you put your hand on the lock, you turn back and pull her into a tight hug, squeezing her tight against you.

"Thank you," you whisper in her ear, "seriously, thank you."

"Yeah, yeah," she answers back with a grin, "now go."

And you do.


	4. Chapter 4

You pass your exam.

In fact, you ace it.

There's no way you'll be at the top of your class when grades come out, but thanks to Gail and the study group she made sure you got to, you're not going to be on the bottom.

Because of Gail.

Because instead of spending the evening watching _Aladdin_ for the millionth time, your sick kid's sweaty body in your lap, you sat in a dim cafe with your classmates, drinking coffee and going over carbs and lipids. You joked about Professor Okonkwo's endless collection of sport coats with Amira, you split a large dish of cheese fries with Garrett, and by the time you found a parking spot on the dark street in front of your building, you felt like you really were going to be fine.

Because of Gail.

You'd texted her, so she'd know to undo the deadbolt, and when you got into your apartment she was sitting on the couch flipping through the channels, with half a pizza on the kitchen table and your laundry all folded in neat piles in the basket on the floor.

"Hey, brainiac," she'd said quietly, answering the question you didn't ask by pointing toward the only true bedroom in the place, Max's, "all prepped for your exam?"

And after you'd nodded, and slipped down the hall to check on your sleeping son, pleased to find that his fever was down. You pulled the blanket up to his chin, tucked his leg back under from where he'd kicked the covers away.

Asleep, he looked younger than five, even with his long legs and arms. He turned, and his eyes blinked open—once, twice—before closing again, and his deep, steady breathing continued.

There are so many things you want for him, your son. So many dreams you have for him. But mostly, you hope he remembers this, remembers that you once sat by his bed and ran your fingers through his thick, dark hair. That there's never been a night when you haven't kissed his forehead and wished for him to have happy dreams.

As far back as you can remember, you can't think of a single time someone did the same for you.

After he was born you were afraid. You'd read the _What to Expect_ books at the library, you'd even, though you're ashamed of it now, stolen a copy from one of them. You could figure out how to change a diaper, how to burp him, how to feed him. But at night, as you'd rubbed your hands over your hard belly to soothe the busy squirming inside of your unborn son, you'd worried about whether you could do the things that weren't in the book. Whether you could do the kinds of things a mother should. You'd never had one, so it wasn't like you had an example to follow. Just what you saw on TV and wished for in your childish dreams.

You were so afraid that you wouldn't know what to do.

But so far, you think, you've done okay, you've figured it out.

You kissed his forehead again, pleased at the fresh scent of soap on his baby-soft skin.

When you came out of the bedroom, Gail was sliding slices of pizza onto a plate at the table.

"It's just cheese," she told you, "and garlic sauce—you know, no tomatoes. Wasn't sure if you'd be hungry, so I ordered a big one."

You were starving, and so you dug in, mentally calculating how much you'd owe her for dinner and the babysitting as she fills you in on her night. Max's stomach had settled soon after you left and he'd kept down the water and juice she'd fed him, along with some chicken noodle soup. They'd watched TV, and done some reading together, and then she'd had him take a bath and put him to bed.

It sounded like they'd had the perfect night, and you kind of wish you could have been here with them, your son and your friend.

"Okay," Gail had said as you finished off another piece of pizza, "I'm gonna head home. I hope the kid feels better, and seriously, Hol, relax. You'll do fine on your exam."

And when you reached for your wallet, she put her hand on your arm, a gentle refusal.

"No," Gail said, "but maybe you could return the favor sometime, hey?"

You know her well enough to be aware that you'll insult her if you insist on paying her for babysitting and dinner, so you pull your hand back from your pocket despite the fact that you hate taking anything from anyone. But at her comment, you smiled.

"I wasn't aware you needed babysitting, Gail," you said with a laugh, amused her silly response, the tongue she stuck out at you.

"No, depsite what Elaine thinks, I'm plenty able to take care of myself. But I have a chemistry midterm next week and I could use some tutoring if I ever want to get out of her doghouse."

"I suppose I could help with that," you replied to her, feeling the long day begin to pull at your shoulders, and yawned, "tell you what. You bring your book and your notes, and I'll make dinner and make sure you're set for the exam."

When you closed and bolted the door behind her a few minutes later, you were smiling.

* * *

><p>Since that first night two months ago, Gail's become a frequent visitor at your apartment. Whether she's babysitting, something she does at least one night a week now that her official term at the Center is over, or getting help with her classwork, which you really don't think she needs since she's one of the smartest people you know, or just hanging out with you and Max, she's always welcome. You'd given her the spare key to your apartment, even, for the nights when she picked Max up from the after-school program and brought him home while you worked an extra shift at your paying job, or caught up on schoolwork, or just had a little time to yourself.<p>

For a little while, you felt like you were taking advantage of her, but not anymore. Your apartment has become a kind of refuge for the lonely teenager, the girl who has always been too much of everything for her peers, and not enough of anything for her family. So your apartment is her clubhouse, her safe place where no one expects anything of her, or demands anything of her, or even wants anything from her. Because all you and Max want is to spend time with her, this smartass blonde who seems so much older than her sixteen—seventeen now, you and Max had brought her a cupcake on her birthday—years. She's become a fixture in your lives now, and hardly a day goes by when you don't think of her at some point, or Max doesn't ask if he can talk to "his friend Gail."

It feels right.

Natural, even.

You honestly have a hard time remembering how you and Max got along without her.

This, you know, could become problematic.

But for right now, you're letting yourself enjoy the first friend you've had in a long time.

This weekend, you got asked to do inventory at the convenience store you work at. They'll pay time and a half, your boss told you, and for the first time since you started—after you asked Gail—you can say yes. Honestly, knowing Gail will be willing to sit for your son, you can't say no. It means a little extra money in the envelope for Max's Christmas gifts this year, and after his latest growth spurt, it's money that is sorely needed.

It's almost four in the morning by the time you're done, and you text Gail, as usual, to let her know she should throw the deadlock off so you can get in without making too much noise. You get back just one letter, "k," and you wonder if you woke her up.

When you sneak into the apartment, you see her asleep.

It surprises you, but maybe it shouldn't. She's stacked the cushions on the floor, just like you do, and pulled out the bed. You can see her shoes, kicked off to the side of the room, and a bare foot sticking out from the sheets on the side of the bed. Somehow she's lost one of her socks, it seems, and it makes you smile, because half the time Max does the same thing. She's stretched out on her back, her long body—she's only an inch or two shorter than you—on the side of the bed closest to the wall, leaving room for you on the left. And she's stretched out one arm above her head, to curl around the halo of blonde hair currently spread over one of the pillows, and the other resting on her flat, firm belly.

You wonder if you should wake her.

You wonder if you should let her sleep.

The two of you didn't discuss this, you just assumed that she'd want to head home as soon as you got back, sleep in her own bed.

It crosses your mind that maybe you should share Max's bed tonight, just like you did for the first few years of his life, and you're about to turn off the kitchen light she'd left on for you and head down the hall when you hear her shift on the thin mattress.

"God, Holly, stop thinking and just get in already."

She sounds cranky, but you know she's not. She just has this way of cutting through all the thousand thoughts in your head, turning all the decisions you thought were complicated and confusing into something simple, into something easy.

She's always making your life easier, this girl.

"Just let me check on Max and change," you whisper back, and grab the first pamaja-worthy clothing you see out of the basket—she's done the laundry again, it seems—on the kitchen table.

Within minutes you're back from the bathroom, all washed up and changed, and slipping under the sheets that's she's warmed up for you.

"Nice pjs," you whisper, seeing that she's stolen a pair from the front closet that acts as your bureau.

"Shut up, Hols," she moans back playfully, and swats at your shoulder.

And that's the last thing you remember before you're slipping, falling into sleep's welcoming arms.


	5. Chapter 5

You've been friends with Gail for almost six months—since the first month of her unofficial community service began in July—when Christmas rolls around. And Max's birthday soon after.

You and Max have a tradition for Christmas. You don't get each other gifts—not that Max could, of course, because he's _five_ and still needs help with shoelaces sometimes. But since he was three, the first year he knew enough to care about Christmas, you and he have given each other something you've made.

Last year he drew a picture of the two of you doing all the things you like to do together—reading books at the library, playing ball at the Center, making "'getti" in the kitchen—on a huge piece of paper that the pre-K counselor at the Center saved for him. You saved some money up and had it framed, behind glass, so you could save it forever. It hangs in the main room of the apartment now, with his name and yours (Mom, of course) written in big and shaky letters.

You made him a scarf and hat (and broke the rules to buy him a new set of mittens, but they were beyond your ability at the time) out of yarn someone had donated to the Center's swap meet. You'd found a couple of skeins of thick, woolen yarn in bright blues and greens and purples, and checked out a book from the library on how to turn the material into your son's winter gear. It took you three months of staying up later than you should have, and you dragged that yarn everywhere—school, work, the bus—in order to get them done. But you'd done it. And the look on his face when he'd opened the gift made all the exhaustion and frustration and, yes, once, even tears, worth it.

This year his gift is a blanket. In the blue and white of his favorite sports team, the Maple Leafs. He'd become a fan, as much as a five-year-old could become a fan, because several of the counselors at the Center were big fans. Especially his favorite, Isaiah.

There were a couple of reasons why Christmas involved handmade or small gifts instead of the huge piles of presents that most people associated with the holiday. And honestly, a lot of it had to do with their financials. They were surviving, but there wasn't a lot of extra money to go around. And since Max's birthday was only a few days after Christmas, she'd decided that that's when he'd get the usual kind of presents—a few toys and some clothes. It was, she'd figured, a way to separate the two holidays for them, so they didn't blend together.

But the other reason was that she wanted Max to grow up with thinking of Christmas and the holiday season as a time to celebrate, a time to give back, a time that isn't just about material things. So even though eventually, she knew, their tradition would change a bit, she hoped that their holiday celebrations would always include these little handmade and heartfelt gifts to each other.

This year, now that Max was old enough, she also wanted to go to one of the local shelters with him, and help hand out food and presents. She remembers their first Christmas together, Max about to turn one and her with barely enough money for food and rent. She'd been planning to ignore the holiday all together, but one of the counselors at the center had told her to visit St. Stephens, a local homeless shelter and meal program. So she had, she'd bundled Max up and walked the several blocks over, and it had been the best Christmas of her life up to that point. The hall was decorated cheerfully, and the food smelled amazing. There had been a Santa Claus handing out gifts, and a group of people singing carols in the corner. Someone had set up a television and put a holiday movie on, and everything and everyone was warm and welcoming.

It had meant so much to her, more than the food she'd been sent home with, or the big basket of baby items that they'd given out to the mothers, or the bag of clothes and home items she'd received on the way out. And when the church van had dropped her off at her building later that night, she'd wept with gratitude.

This year she was going back, and she was taking Max with her. And they'd help take care of others. Give others that same sense of welcoming and warmth and hope that they'd once been given.

"That sounds like fun," Gail says when tell her your plan. It's late, Max is asleep after a long day of whatever secret project he and Gail are working on for your Christmas present. You'd told Gail about how the two of you celebrate when she asked you what you thought Max would like for Christmas. You'd told her she didn't have to get him anything, but she looked at you like you were crazy. But then she'd smiled—that wicked smile that you've learned usually means mischief. She had confirmed with you that it was okay to buy him something for his birthday though, and said she'd run her idea past you later, that same smile on her face.

Trouble, you know, is coming. Because your mischievous five-year-old's best friend is a mischievous seventeen-year-old with a dangerous sense of humor and a ridiculous sense of reality, and sometimes when you see them giggling together, racing off to some activity together, you feel much older than your twenty years. But then one of them will turn and call for you to hurry up, and suddenly you remember that just because you got pregnant with your son just after your fifteenth birthday, and gave birth to him a few months before your sixteenth, doesn't mean you're old. You're twenty, soon to be twenty-one, and even though you're a mom, you're not old. So you catch up with them, and relish how young and free their laughter makes you feel.

Gail's Christmas plans include what she describes as a stuffy party for her parents' work colleagues followed by a stuffy party for her parents' friends followed by a stuffy dinner for her relatives. She sounds absolutely unenthused by it, and you think you understand why. Gail wants warmth. She wants to be wanted, wants her presence to be wanted. She wants her family to see her, to really see who she is, and not what they want her to be.

But they don't. They don't see her. And every day Gail feels more invisible and more lost.

You hope that she knows that you see her, though.

And you think maybe she does. That maybe that's the reason she likes spending time with you and your son, the reason the two of you have built such a bond in just a few months.

After all, you're no stranger to being invisible either.

So you invite Gail to celebrate with you. To meet you early on Christmas morning to exchange gifts with you and Max, and then come with you to the shelter until she has to show up for the big Peck family dinner. That she doesn't invite you back is no surprise, and honestly you're kind of relieved. You've met her mother once, and even though you stood tall and proud, you'd been shaking on the inside. Elaine Peck's reputation, at least through Gail's stories, is formidable.

Still, she gives Gail permission to skip out on the usual morning routine for Christmas.

And you're glad.

* * *

><p>Christmas morning comes too soon, and you've only gotten a few hours sleep after staying up most the night to finish Gail's gift. But when Max slips into your bed that morning, his sleep-warm body cocooning into yours, you smile.<p>

"Morning, mama," he whispers, always a such a sweet little boy in these quiet morning moments.

"Morning, my Max," you whisper back, "and Merry Christmas. Should we see if Santa has come?"

He nods his head excitedly and jumped out of bed, running to the corner where your tiny Christmas tree sits on the desk there. Underneath are a few wrapped presents, and a stocking with Max's name carefully stitched in gold fabric. Santa always brings a few presents, of course, because every child deserves a little magic in their life. This year Santa has brought Max a new winter jacket, and a Maple Leafs sweatshirt that should last him a few years. (Isaiah said he found it on sale somewhere, and even though you doubt that, you can't turn such a generous gift down. So you pay him what he says it cost, and then you bring in a big batch of homemade cookies every time Isaiah works for a couple of weeks after that.)

And then there's the last Santa gift, which you're sure he'll love. It's a kit Max can use to design and build cars. One of your son's favorite toys at the Center are Zoob kits, kits with different pieces that he can build different moveable structures out of. You love them because they're one of those sneaky kind of toys that are teaching Max as much as they're entertaining him. You're always amazed to watch him figure out engineering principles and physics principles and more, all through these toys. So Santa is bringing him the car kit and you're giving him the inventor's kit for his birthday.

Max brings over his stocking, and asks if he can have a piece of candy. And because it's Christmas, you say yes. But only if he goes and gets dressed after, because Gail will be over soon and you want to put your bed back into the couch and turn your bedroom back into the living room before she gets here.

As you expected, hearing that Gail is on her way gets your son moving. He is wholly enamored with your blonde friend.

When Gail does arrive, using the key you gave her, she enters with arms full of bags and things.

"What is all this, I thought I told you about Christmas, Gail?" You're a little annoyed with the idea that she might have gone over your wishes and brought Max a bunch of presents.

"Calm your tits, brainiac," she answers with an unusually happy smile, "most of this is breakfast. Now help me unpack."

You're a little confused, but only because Gail has made it clear that her future holds nothing kitchen-related. So seeing her unpack a bunch of groceries is a little concerning.

"Stop staring and help, Hols," she repeats, and you start to put things away where they belong. The bags contain more than breakfast food though, and you frown at her.

"Gail, did you go grocery shopping for me," holding up a package of thickly sliced ham.

She sticks her tongue out at you. "No, oh, suspiscious one, I did not. This is all leftover from those insufferably long and boring parties Elaine put on this week. She caught me on my way out and told me to bring it over, something about there not being room in the fridge. Which is why I've also brought us these," she says, and holds up a saran-wrapped plate of something that looks like—

"—mini-quiches. The only way I will eat eggs. If they're mixed up with spinach and cream and cheese and baked into a little tiny pie." Her eyes twinkle with amusement, and she puts the quiches on a plate to heat up along with little tiny sausages wrapped in bits of pastry. "I thought Max would like the pigs in a blanket for breakfast."

She's right. Max will love it.

"Merry Christmas, Gaily," he shouts and runs down the hall from his room, wearing his latest favorite shirt. Gail had found it buried in a pile of shirts the last time you'd gone to Goodwill, and Max's eyes had lit up when he saw The Falcon on the front, the powerful red wings of the superhero set off nicely by the dark navy of the cotton shirt.

"Max," she shouts back, preparing himself for Max's traditional greeting, a running leap into her arms. "Merry Christmas, dude, did you see if Santa came?"

"Yep," Max say, his darker skin and hair against Gail's now-familiar platinum blonde. She'd lost the goth look soon after you'd met, and if you were going to let yourself think about it, you thought the lighter color was much more beautiful. "And guess what, Gaily, there's a present for you too!"

"For me," Gail answers with exaggerated surprise, "no way."

You laugh at the two of them, the way Max nods his head seriously, as if he really thinks his best friend doesn't believe him.

"Okay, you two," you say with a chuckle, "let's eat breakfast and then we can open gifts, okay?"

They both turn and pout at you, and you are overwhelmed with love. For your son, of course, but also for this crazy woman who has somehow become such big part of your life. You don't go to church often, but there's always a mass at the shelter's Christmas celebration, and so today, just like always, you'll sit through the rituals and ceremonies silently saying the only prayer you know—a thank you to whomever or whatever force may exist, an acknowledgement of your blessings. Always, always Max will be at the top of that list, the most beautiful and most precious gift life has ever given you. But this year, you're adding another. This year, you're whispering a thank you for Gail as well. Because now, in the hierarchy of people who are essential to your life, Gail has leapt into a solid, secure second place.

* * *

><p>As you anticipated, Max liked the new coat, loved the new sweatshirt (and insisted on putting it on right away), and yelped with glee when he peeled back the paper on the Zoob kit. And you were about to suggest that he give Gail his present for her when the blonde interrupts.<p>

"Actually," she says, "Santa made a bit of a mistake, and left one of the gifts for you and your mom at my house."

You look up at her, surprised and caught off-guard. You have no idea what's about to happen.

Gail pulls out what looks like an envelope wrapped in bright and festive paper—it doesn't surprise you that it's the same paper you used for Max's Santa gifts, she was lounging around while you wrapped them, after all—and hands it to your son.

"How did that happen," Max asks, innocent and curious.

"I don't know, buddy," Gail answers him with a gentle smile, "he just left a note that said it got mixed up with another house's presents, and since he knows you and your mom are my best pals, could I bring it over."

And as she speaks, her eyes lift to capture yours, and you know she's asking you to trust her.

You do.

"So," Gail says, "who wants to open it, it says 'To Mom and Max,' so it could be either of you."

"You should open it, mom," your son says, and you smile brightly. He might be a firecracker sometimes, but your boy has a good, kind heart. Here he is, nearly vibrating with excitement at another present from Santa, and he's telling you to open it.

"No," you tell him, "I think you should. But why don't you sit in my lap so we can both see, okay?"

He's getting older now, so sometimes he thinks that sitting in your lap is too babyish, but apparently not this morning, because he crawls right over and settles in, this big boy who used to be only a little bigger than your hand.

"Mom! Mom! Look," he shouts as he exposes a logo on the envelope under the wrapping paper. It's the Maple Leafs logo, and you look up at Gail. Her smile is wider than you've ever seen it before, she looks absolutely joyful, and even if you're slightly annoyed that she's broken the no bought gifts rule, you can't hold it against her. Not when it has made her and your son so ecstatically happy.

"Let me see," you say, as Max starts to sound out the letters on the front. Inside the envelope are four tickets to an upcoming Maple Leafs game, the weekend of Max's birthday, actually.

"Wow, Max," you tell him as he bounces in your lap, "Santa brought you tickets to a Maple Leafs game, he must know how much you like them." You barely register the flash of Gail's phone lens as she snaps a picture of the two of you.

He jumps up and out of your lap, and starts running around the couch, shouting out his excitement.

You roll your eyes. You have no idea how you're going to calm him down.

"That was nice of Santa," you say dryly, and look over at Gail. She examines her fingernails intently for a moment, not looking up to respond.

"Well, from what I heard, Santa's idiot brother owed her a favor, and just happened to know someone who know someone. So Santa's elf may have taken advantage of that."

You can't help but roll your eyes. She's ridiculous. But your son loves her, and he's a pretty damn good judge of character, so you suppose you'll just have to learn to put up with her.

Doesn't mean you can't toy with her though, you think as you send a half-squint, half-glare her way.

"Hey," she responds, sticking her hands up in the air, "you can't get mad at Santa's elf."

Frustratingly, that has proven to be true.

* * *

><p>It takes forever to get Max settled down in bed that night. And he insists on sleeping in his new Maple Leafs sweatshirt under his new blanket. You give in, it is a holiday after all.<p>

Out in the living room you sit on the couch, debating whether or not to bother pulling out your bed or just sleeping on the couch itself tonight. Right now, the couch wins.

The day has been long, and you're exhausted. But it was a good day, a really good day.

Max loved his Santa gifts, and Gail's surprise gift had really just made his day. But all the other gifts had been wonderful too. Max loved his new blanket, and had walked around the apartment wearing it like a cape for most of the morning after the three of you cleaned up the mess of torn and crumpled wrapping paper. He also loved what Gail had made for him. She'd remembered him asking you about having a garden, so he could grow things in it, and so for his present she'd put together a little herb garden for him. Little tiny pots with seedlings already growing, and a plant markers and a little watering can. Everything—the pots, the markers, the can—had been made out of old soda bottles, and it all fit into a tray she'd fashioned from another bigger bottle. His little plants now have a place of honor on his windowsill, where they'll get plenty of sun.

Max's gift to you, though, had left you breathless. From the moment you peel back the paper, you know that this will be one of your most treasured possessions, for the rest of your life. You knew that he and Gail had been up to something, they were absolutely no good at hiding it. Giggling and whispering and shhh-ing each other like fools. But you had no idea that they were working on this.

This beautiful, priceless, gorgeous book.

He'd written you a story, your son. The tale of a plucky T-Rex defending his city against a big, alien named Max who had come exploring for a new home. Gail had taken him around the city, taking pictures of the alien-explorer and his big plastic T-Rex at different places—the zoo, the museum, the park, the Center, the corner store. In the story, written carefully over lines that Gail must have drawn under the pictures, T-Rex decided to help Max out, and took him all over, helping him to find his home. And on the last page? A picture you remember Gail taking a few weeks ago—you and Max hugging while T-Rex watches over from his spot on the couch.

"Max Attack," the title read on the cover, where your son had drawn a picture of himself and his dinosaur, and underneath all that, his name. "By Max Stewart," he had written in big block letters. And then, in Gail's smaller hand, "With help from Gail Peck."

These two beautiful, silly, gorgeous people.

You felt overwhelmed with gratitude at having them in your life, your son and Gail, overwhelmed with gratitude and joy and love.

It took a while, but when you were done crying, and when your eyes were mostly dry, it was time for you and Max to give Gail her presents.

And she had loved them, you're pretty sure. She'd cooed and ahhhed over the picture that Max had drawn for her, writing "To Gail, Love Max" in his very best handwriting at the bottom of the picture of you all as superheroes. Max was, of course, The Falcon, and Gail, you had been amused to see, as Captain Marvel. You were, Max had told you, Mockingbird, because you liked science just like Bobbi Morse did. Gail had held the picture so carefully, so as not to crush or fold or injure it, clearly in love with Max's vision of the three of you fighting off bad guys together. She'd put the paper down on the kitchen table and then pulled Max over to her gently, and then wrapped him in a tight hug.

Your gift to her was a scarf, long and soft. This cashmere yarn that you found on-sale when you'd picked up supplies for Max's blanket, the beautiful yarn that flowed from one shade of green to another and another. The moment you saw it you knew it would look gorgeous against her pale, pale skin. And it did. Max rubbed his hand against the fringe on the ends as you wrapped it once, twice, three times around her neck while she laughed. You were standing so close, you could feel it ripple through her whole body. You stood there for a moment, right up against her, watching the joy pass over her face, watching as she rubbed her cheek against the soft green material.

You'll never know what possessed you to do what you did next. Not in a thousand years will you ever figure it out. But you can't regret it. You won't, not ever. Not in any of those thousand years.

Because for a moment, seeing her at perhaps the most honestly, purely happy she's ever been in the entire time you've known her, you forget everything. You forget who you are, who she is. You forget the four years between you, the big difference between teenage mother and high school student. For a moment, maybe, you even forget Max, your silly, sweet son bouncing just at your side.

You forget all of that, and you kiss her.

You lean in to give her a hug, to celebrate this special day, and as you wrap your arms around her, feel her heartbeat echo against your chest, you kiss her.

You hug her close and then the soft skin of her cheek is against your own, and you can smell the fresh, clean scent of her, just the hint of evergreen at the crook of her neck, at the line of her jaw. And then before you know it, you're whispering "Merry Christmas," and tilting your head just the slightest to place a kiss, sweet and honest, at the corner of her mouth.

And then you pull back, like nothing had happened, nothing out of the ordinary, and slowly let her go.

Let her body go, you mean.

Because if you're being honest, you've been carrying her around with you all day. Her scent in your nose, the sound of her laughter in your ears, the taste of her mouth on your lips. Even now, exhausted after hours of serving and caroling and celebrating at St. Stephens, after wrangling your son home on the bus and then into the bath and bed. Even now, as you lay on your couch and stare at the ceiling, you can still conjure up the heat of her body against yours.

And it feels so odd.

And it feels so right.

And it makes you feel something you've never felt before, something you don't even have a name for.


	6. Chapter 6

You don't talk about the kiss.

Not after it happens, not the next time you see her, not at all. You chalk it up to the sweetness of the moment, affection shared between friends, that sort of thing.

You don't mention it.

Neither does she.

* * *

><p>All of a sudden you have a six-year-old.<p>

All of a sudden your baby is six years old and suddenly you miss everything about his little soft baby skin and tiny fingers and toes, his sweet curls and the way he'd whimper into your shirt as he wound down from a temper tantrum. The way he'd let you carry him around, hug him tightly, smooth the wild curls of his hair before sending him off into school in the morning.

Suddenly the future seems to be knocking at your door, a future you're nowhere near ready for. One in which Max gets taller and taller, his shoulders widening to bear all the weight the world will ask him to carry. One where your son grows up and moves on and out and away. One in which you're alone again.

It's Gail who helps you through your existential panic attack, the realization that no matter how much you want Max to stay your sweet little baby boy, you can't stop him from growing up. She sees you standing to the side at the party the Center throws for Max, comes over and pokes you in the belly.

"Come on, now, he turned six," she says, "he didn't join the Merchant Marines."

And you laugh and grab her hand, squeezing it tightly.

She always knows exactly what you need.

The day after the birthday party, in which Max received far too many presents from all the people in your found-family, is the hockey game that Gail, via Santa, got tickets for. There were four—one for you, one for Max, and one for herself, she told him. The fourth one, she'd said, he could use to invite anyone he wanted. Max had hemmed and hawed all week, only deciding on who else to invite after running into Gail and her brother at the Center one afternoon. Steve, in his dark blue patrol uniform, had stopped by to talk to the older kids about drugs and gangs and staying safe on the streets. It had been Gail's idea, you know, because she'd come to you concerned about some things she'd overheard the fifth and sixth graders saying in the gym one afternoon.

It just took hearing that Steve was related to his best friend Gail for Max to warm up to the tall, pale cop with the red hair and blue eyes that were nowhere near as startlingly gorgeous as Gail's. That and the neatly pressed uniform, the shiny shoes, the badge and cuffs and gun. Steve had given them all a ride home in the squad car, and let Max try on his cap before dropping them, and on a whim, Gail, off at their apartment building.

Later that night, after you'd whipped up some mac n' cheese for your son and your friend, Max had asked Gail to read him a story before bed. And then, while they sat on the couch and you washed up the dishes, you heard him ask if Steve could come to the game.

So that's how you and Max joined Gail and her brother at the hockey game.

It was an afternoon you don't think your son will ever forget.

Steve and Gail spoiled him rotten, and for once, you didn't protest. Not when they filled him up with soft pretzels and candy and soda. Not when they bought him a tiny jersey with his name in white letters across the back. Not when Steve lifted him up on his shoulders so he could see better.

Afterwards the four of you went to a nearby pizza parlour and arcade, and you and Gail watched while the two boys tried to win you a stuffed animal from the claw machine. Finally, after what seemed like almost twenty attempts, with Steve guiding Max's hands on the controls, they did it. Steve scooped up your son and the prize onto his shoulders and walked back over to the table with the same triumphant swagger you've seen on Gail every time she beats you at checkers. And just before they filled Max up with pizza and more soda and a big banana split that you all shared, Max climbed up into the booth next to you and gave the little stuffed penguin that he and Steve had won.

By the end of the night, Max was overtired and over-sugared and hyper beyond belief.

But you didn't mind.

It had been a really good day.

* * *

><p>Six weeks into the spring term and something is off.<p>

Gail hasn't really been around lately, and it's not just because you've been busy with classes or because she's been busy trying to decide where she's going to be and what she's going to do next year. She still babysits for Max one night a week, but instead of staying over and talking into the early morning hours with you, or falling asleep on the side of the bed that you're sure will only ever feel like hers, she goes leaves as soon as you get home. She's talking to you but she's not talking to you and it's got you worried.

Because of all the people in her life ,you know, Gail has really only ever opened up to you. Something you know, of course, from all the times you've lain together in the dark, talking. You telling her about things at school, or something Max did when she wasn't around, and her sharing things about her life, her day, in return.

And right now she's not.

It takes another week before she lets you in on what's going on. For a moment, terrifying and dark, you wonder if now is finally the moment she'll bring up that kiss over Christmas, the kiss you both have pretended didn't happen, but it's not that.

Instead it's something much, much worse.

* * *

><p>"I think I'm pregnant," Gail says as you open the door, blinking your eyes against the lights in the hallway. It's four am and you woke to the sound of a quiet but deliberate pounding at your door.<p>

The words are like a splash of cold water, and you're instantly awake.

Gail pushes past you into the apartment as your brain struggles to catch up to her words.

"Wait, what?" You close and lock the door then follow her into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. You have a feeling you're going to want to be as awake as possible for the conversation that you're about to have.

You don't look at her while you measure out the grounds or pour the pot of water into your beloved coffee-maker. You hear the drip, drip, drip of the coffee in the pot and watch it, trying to sort out your thoughts, trying to steady your breathing.

You're angry, you realize.

Angry and you're not sure why. But your fists are clenched and your jaw is tight and you can feel a heavy pounding in your head.

You're angry and you're not sure what to say, but you're afraid that if you say any of the things currently filling your mouth with ash, you'll lose her. You'll lose her just when she might need you most.

And you can't do that.

So you don't say anything as you set down the two mugs on the table, as you sit across from her and watch the way she wraps her hands around the warm ceramic. Not drinking, just holding the cup, letting it warm away the cold of Canadian February.

You don't say anything.

But that's okay.

She does.

* * *

><p>Gail, you know, had been a virgin.<p>

She'd asked you about it one night, losing your virginity. One of those nights laying side-by-side each other in the darkness, neither quite ready to sleep yet. The kind of sleepover that movies and television said teenaged girls were supposed to have. The kind you'd never had. She'd asked you about having sex, about getting pregnant, where Max's dad was, all that.

And so you'd told her. You told her the whole story.

You weren't ashamed of it, not of any of it. And even if you had been, you couldn't change any of it. You don't even know if you would, to be honest. Because you couldn't imagine a life better than the one you have, not really. At the end of the day, you have your son. And he's adorable and a pain-in-the-ass and smart and funny and even when he's being terrible you love him. You wouldn't trade him for anything.

So you told her about being a teenager in a foster home with too many other children, never enough money, and foster parents who'd only signed up for the monthly checks. You told her about being in a new neighborhood and a freshman in high school, about the way boys and men looked at you on the street, in the stores, even at home. The way it sent shivers down your back, made your insides crawl.

And then you told her about Josh. Josh Lassiter. Max's father.

He was a year ahead of you in school, a tall and thin boy with close-cropped black hair and a kind, gentle smile. He came across some guys hassling you as you walked back home one afternoon, squared his shoulders, puffed up his chest, and told them to get lost. Every day after that, for weeks on end, he walked you home. Waited by your locker after last period and walked you all the way home before running back to school for hockey practice.

Josh was popular, of course. He was handsome and athletic and did alright in his classes. He was usually in some sort of trouble with a teacher or the administration, skipping a class to help take his grandmother for her dialysis or getting his teammates to fill the girls' locker room with balloons and streamers after the end of a pretty terrible season. But before they could dole out detention Josh's charm and grin usually had them laughing.

He asked you to Homecoming, and when you turned him down because, he took you out anyway. Burgers and chips, some franchise place. The two of you sat there for a long time, talking about things, school, the past, the future.

He was the first real friend you'd had since primary school, since you'd been removed from your foster home after their IVF treatments finally worked and suddenly they didn't have room for a ten-year-old anymore. Not with triplets on the way. The adoption process was stopped and suddenly, for the first time since you were four and placed with the Grabowski's you were alone. They were the first family you really could remember, and they'd let you go. You'd had to transfer schools, a bunch of times actually, and you lost all the friends you'd made at Meadowpark as you were bounced from one new house to the next.

Since the Grabowski's, though, none of them had felt like home. Like family. And you'd learned pretty quickly to not make new friends. Any moment that old, yellow station wagon could pull up, and Mrs. Nguyen's pristine white walking shoes could step out onto the street, a new manila folder in her hand, telling you once again that she was sorry, but you had to pack your things.

But Josh was different. Josh hadn't given you a choice, not really. He was just always there. Walking you home. Nodding to you in the hallway. Asking if he could sit next to you at lunch, as he scarfed down his big plate of cafeteria food and you nibbled away at your apple and carrots.

Josh was the kind of guy who took care of people. Who looked out for them. Who stood up for the weakest ones, took them under his big, strong wing.

Like he'd taken you.

You loved him. You still do, and when you think of him now it's with warmth. But you were never in love with him. And you don't think he was in love with you. Not really, not in the way people talk about it.

You were a comfort to each other, him the one everyone seemed to depend on. You, the one who had no one. You were a comfort to each other.

And then, at that point in your lives, it was enough.

Gail had asked you about the sex, about your first time. And when you tell her, it's with a bit of a blush. Still, even several years later.

It was embarrassing. It was your first time. And it was his. He took you out to get something to eat, borrowing his grandmother's car for the evening, and then driven to the parking lot of an abandoned shopping mall, a place the two of you came to often, to sit in the quiet and talk.

Your hands shook on the condom. He kissed you sloppily. Before you knew it, it was over.

It was the middle of February, and the windows frosted up as the two of you sat awkwardly in the back of Mrs. Lassiter's car. Pants around your ankles, your skinny shoulders tucked into his loose embrace as you listened to his heart slow down, ear pressed against the dark, curly hair of his chest. You don't know who started laughing first, but soon enough the whole car was shaking from his big, chesty laugh.

"Let's not do that again," he'd said, looking down at you with eyes so brown they were almost black. And laughing, you'd agreed. It wasn't terrible, but it just wasn't for you. Not with him. And you were glad he felt the same way.

You remember how he used his t-shirt to clean you up; it was only later you'd realized that the condom must have broken, or been defective, or old, but at the time neither of you had known the difference. You remember how the light from the lamps in the parking lot cut in through the frosty windows, how it glowed upon his black skin, his graceful limbs as he pulled up his pants, as he shrugged back into his sweatshirt.

You remember his hands, how large they were, and calloused. How gentle they always were, how carefully he treated you.

How he held open doors for strangers in stores, how he chased after a man to return the toy a child dropped. How he said "hello" and "please" and "thank you" and "after you, miss" at school.

You told Gail all of this.

And then you waited for her to ask the next question.

She didn't disappoint.

You know how people look at Max and you. They see just another teen mother, an absent father. You know they chalk Max up to an accident, know they write off his father as another deadbeat, another nobody. You know they recall the statistics they hear on the news and assume Josh is in prison, or in a gang, or that your son is just one of many unwanted children of a man too irresponsible to glove up before he loves up.

If you could, you'd tell them, each and every one, how wrong they were.

You'd tell them about the brochure for the Royal Military College he kept in his backpack. You'd tell him about the time you helped him babysit for a neighbor's two-week old baby and how silly such a tiny child had looked in his big hands, the way he helped his grandmother with the bills when money was low. You'd tell them how hard he studied for his classes, how proud he'd been when he came home with a B+ average.

You'd tell them how three weeks after that night in the car, he'd been covering a shift for his cousin at a nearby gas station. How when he was finished, he'd started to walk home but heard something strange.

You'd tell them how he interrupted a mugging, some thug stealing a woman's purse. How he ran, how stupid Josh ran after the mugger. Chased him down and tackled him into the grass. Just another kid, not too much older than Josh himself. Murphy, James Murphy. Nineteen and in and out of juvie for most of his adolescence.

Josh probably hadn't even felt the knife as he toppled the kid over, probably hadn't felt it slip under his ribs and into his liver. He would have felt it as the kid twisted it inside of him, though. Would have felt the pain as his assailant drove the knife deeper, further, up into his upper abdominal cavity. He would have gasped at the pain, at the tearing sensation of flesh being ripped apart, of vessels and muscles and all sorts of tissue being severed. He would have cried out, maybe for his grandmother, maybe for God. Maybe, even, for you.

No one came, though. No one came.

You hope, you wish, that his last moments were quick. That he didn't feel the knife being pulled out, that he didn't have time to suffer, to wait, to wonder. You hope that his last moments were warm, and comfortable. You hope that he was beyond pain as he bled out through the vein—the vena cava, you're pretty sure—the knife had nicked on its way in.

You hope he wasn't scared.

You hope he knew he was loved.

You'd tell them that, all of that, those people who look at you and Max and shake their heads. You'd tell them how wrong they are, how terrible their misconceptions are. You'd tell them that Max's dad was a hero.

But you can't, you can't tell everyone. You don't have the time or the energy. And those people don't deserve to know how wrong they are anyway, don't deserve to know anything about your amazing best friend, your Josh.

But you tell Gail.

Gail does.

So you'd told Gail everything.

* * *

><p>There was a guy, almost two months ago. Someone she met at a function to celebrate her father's promotion. The son of another cop, someone as bored as she was, as tired of being dressed up and paraded around like puppets. They'd exchanged numbers, met up a few times, hung out, saw a movie that you'd asked Gail if she wanted to see a few weeks ago.<p>

Then, after a couple of casual dates, they'd had sex.

And again.

And again.

And again.

You're clenching your fists as she tells you all of this, and you're not sure whether you're angrier at the fact that she and this boy have been having sex, the fact that this is the first time you're hearing about it, or that there's a chance their birth control, if they were using it, has failed.

Your head is spinning and your stomach is twisting and you feel old, so much older than her right now.

"Was it consensual," you ask, because you've decided the only way you can handle this is rationally, step-by-step, because Gail is agitated and freaking out and you need to help her calm down. And has always worked with Max when he's upset about something.

If only this were one of Max's problems, something that could be solved by finding the missing sock or his favorite action figure.

She nods and you breathe in a sigh of relief.

"Okay, were you using some kind of birth control? Condoms, the pill?"

Even in the dim room you can see her cheeks go pink with embarrassment. But now isn't the time for modesty.

"Gail," you say and nudge her leg under the table with your foot, "were you using contraceptives? Anything at all—"

"Condoms," she answers back in a strangled whisper, "we used condoms. I didn't want to go on the pill and risk Elaine freaking out about it. So he brought condoms."

"And he used them?"

When she doesn't answer, you nudge her leg again.

"I think so," she sputters out, looking back down the dark hallway to where Max is sleeping, "I think so. I didn't pay much attention to what he was doing down there, Holly."

Her voice is angry, biting. You haven't heard that tone from her, not directed at you at least, in months. She's scared and she's angry and she's lashing out. And as much as you want to yell at her, want to shake her back and forth for being so stupid, for risking everything she has going in her life, you can't. That's not what she needs now. She came to you for help, she trusts you.

So you tamp down on all the feelings struggling to escape right now, you lock them up and hide them away. Even as you realize exactly what they mean, you bury them.

For her.

Right now Gail needs Holly-the-friend.

Not Holly-the-please-don't-end-up-like-me.

Not Holly-the-totally-jealous-of-this-guy.

Not Holly-the-just-realized-I'm-in-love-with-you.

"Okay, here's what we're going to do," you say, and lay out the plan. "You're going to get some sleep. And then in the morning, we're going to get a pregnancy test and you're going to take it. And I'll be here the whole time, I'll even hold your hand if you need me to, okay?"

She nods, and her eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

"And then," she asks, her voice thick.

But that's as much as you know right now. That's as far into the future you can see. Because, honestly? You have no idea about what comes after.

For her, for you, for anyone.

Still, you have to pretend.

She needs you to pretend.

"And then, depending on what the test says, we'll figure it out," you answer. "We'll figure it out, Gail. It will be okay. I promise you, everything will be okay."

You hope she can't hear how fervently you're praying for that to be true.

* * *

><p>You don't sleep in the same bed. It just doesn't seem right.<p>

Instead, you get Gail settled onto the pullout and then you sneak into Max's room and slip into the space between his sleep-warm body and the cold wall.

In the morning you wake to him poking you in the cheek with a stuffed animal.

"Max, stop that," you tell him, batting away the furry-face.

"Morning, mom," he says, and snuggles up into you, giving you a peck on the cheek where he'd been hitting you with the animal. Not hitting, you realize, he'd been trying to wake you up with stuffed animal kisses.

The realization makes you smile.

"Morning, Max," you answer back with a big yawn before closing your eyes again and pulling the blanket up over your shoulders.

"Moooooom," he says, drawing out the word in a preview of the teenaged years to come, "did you know that Gail is sleeping in your bed? So how come you're sleeping with me?"

It comes back to you in an instant, the late-night visit, Gail's fear, her tears.

When you look over at your son's alarm clock, you see it's only half-past six.

"Is Gail still asleep," you ask, knowing that he wouldn't have woken her on his own.

He nods.

"Good, she wasn't feeling very well last night. How about we get dressed really quietly, and then sneak out and bring back donuts and juice," you whisper conspiratorially, "You think that'll make her feel better?"

His nod is bigger this time, and there's an excited smile on his face.

"Awesome," you say, "I'm going to go grab my clothes and get dressed in the bathroom, you get yourself ready in here. Then we'll go get Gail her surprise donuts, okay?"

* * *

><p>When you come back, you with your small pharmacy bag and a big jug of orange juice, Max carefully carrying the half-dozen donuts he personally picked out, Gail's still asleep. You send your son off to his room to make his bed and put away his pajamas, telling him that you'll wake up Gail.<p>

You sit gently on the edge of the thin mattress and watch as she blows a wisp of hair away from her face with every exhaled breath.

She's beautiful, Gail. You've always known it. But it's different this morning, and you think back to that kiss from Christmas. How long, you wonder, has this been brewing? How long have you felt this way about her and just chalked it up to friendship, to closeness, to gratitude for the joy she's brought to the lives of you and your son?

It doesn't matter now.

It can't matter.

Because even though she's only four years younger than you, your lives are so different. Whether she's pregnant or not, your lives are so different.

You have Max.

She has a million different possibilities ahead of her, a million opportunities just waiting for her to select one, just waiting for her to pick the one that pleases her the most.

There's not room for you there, you know. Not like that, not in the way you're just realizing you want to be in her life.

There's only room for this, for Holly, Gail's friend. For Holly and Max, Gail's friends.

Not for anything else.

You shake her gently, "Gail, Gail, wake up."

It takes a moment, but slowly her eyes blink open, struggle to focus on your face.

"Holly," she whispers, her voice heavy with sleep, "hey."

"Hey," you whisper back and let your hand brush away that bit of hair from her lips, "Max and I went out early this morning and got breakfast. And a test. You should take it now, it works best if you take it first thing."

You see the very moment reality floods back in, the very second she fully wakes.

You press the bag into her hand. "Here, go take the test now. Then we'll eat while we wait. Max got you your favorite donut, you know."

And she's terrified, you can tell. Terrified about what the test will say, terrified that her life might change forever in just a few short minutes.

But she's Gail Peck, and the sarcastic reply that slips out of her mouth just makes you smile.

"All donuts are my favorite donuts," she says.

That's your Gail.

She's going to be just fine.

* * *

><p>You eat your donut slowly, barely tasting it as you watch the clock. The seconds tick by at a glacial pace.<p>

Finally, Gail jumps up and excuses herself from the table. Max just shrugs and finishes his juice before jumping down from his seat to put his dishes in the sink.

When she comes back from the bathroom, you're almost afraid to look at her, to see the answer on her face. And for a moment, you take the coward's way out, and stare down at your half-eaten pastry.

But when you look up, she's hugging Max tightly, crushing him into her body. You look her in the eye and see the flash of tears there as she shakes her head back and forth.

Happy tears then.

The weight you didn't even know you were carrying dissipates into nothing. A great heaviness slipping away.

"Weirdo," Max says and then heads back to the bathroom to wash up.

Your world is still off-kilter. And you have things to think about.

But right now none of that matters.

You don't know what to say—or, really, you don't know what to say first. There's so much. You want to yell and scream. You want to tell her you knew it would all be okay. You want to tell her never to worry you like that again.

But when you open your mouth, nothing comes out.

Instead, she comes up to you, hands tucked into the too-long sleeves of your sweatshirt, and wraps her arms around you. The hug is desperate. You can feel her relief in the way she clings to you, the way her breath hitches against your shoulder.

And you hug her back, just the same.

"Hey," Gail says quietly.

"Hey," you answer back, just as soft.

And it's okay.

It's all going to be okay.


End file.
